Thursday, June 30, 2005
More Fiction
No rough draft, I'm just making it up as I type, although I have had the idea for awhile. I wrote song lyrics on the subject for the never-realized supergroup Honkey Lips.

"I've Seen This Place Before."

December, 2012

Mike can't believe it's happening to him. He holds the little stick from the pregnancy test, his hand shaking as he reads the result: Positive. "Fuck," he says aloud to an empty room. " I'm going to have to get an abortion."

Five years ago, before Sean Jacobs shocked the medical establishment by becoming the first man to give birth to a baby, this would have been big news. Now, male-origin deliveries, or "butthole babies" as they're more commonly known, account for roughly five percent of all births in the United States. Sean Jacobs, the butthole baby pioneer, made millions with his bouncing bowel movement; Mike, like so many unwed fathers since, is on his own.

Mike collects himself and dials Lindsey's phone number. They had that one crazy night after they both got drunk at a Religion Observation Day Party at work. At the time, Mike thought it was the best time since way back in the old Christmas party days, but now the bill is due.

"Hey, Lindsey," he begins. "It's Mike."

"Mike?" Lindsey wonders. "Mike who?"

"Mike LaSalle."

"Oh." Silence. "Hey."

"I'm pregnant!" Mike blurts out.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You're the mother," Mike whines. "That's what it has to do with you."

Lindsey loudly clears her throat. "How do you know it's mine?"

"There hasn't been anyone else!"

"I'd like to take a maternity test," Lindsey states.

"It doesn't matter," Mike concedes. "I'm having an abortion."

"Well, if I'm the mother don't I have a say?"

"It's my body!"

"Yeah," Lindsey agrees, "shitting out a ten pound human turd can't be a picnic. I suppose you want me to pay half on the abortion?"

"Nah," Mike says. "I can afford the twenty dollars."

One of the social by-products of male pregnancy was an almost overnight end to the country's abortion debate. Men certainly weren't going to be inconvenienced. Nobody was going to take away a man's right to choose. Abortion clinics started popping up on every corner, resulting in highly competitive pricing for the procedure. Abortion doctors started advertising during football games and cop dramas. Twelve years of Republican control of the White House meant an almost complete erosion of basic civil liberties, but once a man had an asshole contraction, abortion on demand became as easy as an oil change.

The next day, Mike goes to Dave's Abort-O-Rama to terminate his pregnancy. He has to wait in line because Tuesday is Minor's Day at the clinic and a clown is passing out balloons and hats to all patients sixteen and younger.

"I've seen this place before," Mike thinks to himself as he gives his information to one of the office assistants.

"Sir, you left 'Hobbies' blank on your form," the young lady says.


"We collect demographic information to randomly sell to companies," she informs him. "It underwrites the expense of these abortions we practically give away. Any hobbies, sir?"

Mike thinks for a minute. "Well, I used to have a blog, know ."

"Yeah. Shame about that."

In 2010, President Jeb Bush signed into law the controversial Suppression of Shared Information Act, which effectively outlawed blogging.

"I know why this place seems so familiar!" Mike practically shouts, breaking the awkward silence. "I took my car here once. This used to be a Jiffy Lube."

Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The 20 Q's
I took this from Dena who took it from F Vo who took it from someone who is of no relevance here. I love these things for days when I have nothing, and baby is this one of those days.

1. Tell me something obvious about you.
I have a strange sense of humor.

2. Tell me something about you that many don't know.
The scent of my urine is not affected by mass consumption of asparagus.

3. What is your biggest fear?
"Death", with "life" a close second.

4. Do you normally go the safe route or take the short cut?
There are no short cuts where I live. Every single road is under construction.

5. Name one thing you want that you can't buy with money?
True love.

6. What is your most treasured possession?
My Homer Simpson pez dispenser.

7. What is the one thing you hate most about yourself that you do often?

8. What is your favorite lie to tell?
No, I don't hate you at all.

9. Name something you've done once that you can't wait to do again.
Receive a blowjob from an off-duty stripper while drunkenly leaning against a dumpster in the parking lot of the Phoenix Hill Tavern.

10. Are you the jealous type?
Quite the opposite. I give the false impression that I don't care.

11. What is the one person, place or thing you can't say no to?
I've never said no to pizza. Ever.

12. What's the nicest thing someone has ever done for you?
Refer to my answer to question 9.

13. If you could do something crazy right now, what would it be?
Execute a violent overthrow of the U.S. government.

14. When was the last time you cried?
This past Sunday. The time before that was during the series finale of Dharma and Greg.

15. When was the last time you felt so good that nothing else mattered?
Something else has always mattered.

16. Do you feel comfortable in public with no shirt on?
Christ no. I don't feel comfortable in public.

17. Name something embarrassing you did while drunk.
Answered these questions.

18. Name one person, past or present, with whom you'd like to spend the day.
Pepe Frias, utility infielder for the 1976 Montreal Expos.

19. Name one place you've never been and would like to go, and why.
Seattle, because it' dreary and angst-ridden.

20. What's the story behind your online persona/name?
Yournamehere is a bad joke that prepares the reader for the string of bad jokes to come.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Comedy Club Douchebag
There was one incident over the weekend that merits a blogging.

I went to a comedy club on Saturday night. The comics weren't well-known, but they were fairly amusing. The problem with going to a comedy club in Las Vegas is all the comics feel compelled to do Las Vegas jokes. "Blah blah I lost my money blah blah I ate a buffet blah blah." The tourists eat that shit up. I don't understand that. I've been a tourist in San Francisco, Orlando, New York City, Los Angeles, etc. I never had the thought "It would be great if someone would pander to me with the worst type of lowest common denominator pablum." However, much to the comics' credit, they got that shit out of the way and then made some amusing observations.

The headliner that night started asking questions of members of the audience, and that's when I got the opportunity to see not just a jackass, but a rare and coveted jackass emeritus. I don't remember his name, so let's call him Prick. Prick stood up in the middle of the show to go to the bathroom. He may in hindsight have been better served sitting in a puddle of his own piss.

The following exchange occurred:
Comedian: "Sir, where are you from?"
Prick(slurring almost incoherently): "Uuuh, California."
Comedian: "Do you live in a city or just aimlessly roam about the state?"
Prick: "I gotta piss."
The crowd erupted and the guy stumbled toward the men's room.

The comedian then started talking to Prick's party and discovered two of them were old friends of Prick who moved from Cali to Denver. They met Prick in Las Vegas and brought with them a blind date for him. How's that for friends? They didn't know it, but that friendship was about to be publicly shat upon.

After a few minutes Prick came back to his table.
Comedian: "So, your friends set you up with this lovely young lady..."
Prick: "I didn't know she was Korean."

What? That's all that went through my mind.

Comedian: "Uh, I don't think that's something you should say."
Prick: "I expect my laundry done by 5."

The crowd, to its credit, booed and hissed the racist fuckface. He said that shit about his date RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER, in public no less. He was drunk, but I've been drunk before and racism isn't a by-product of shitfacery. I'll bet Prick's friends won't be setting him up again.

I saw Prick's date/victim in the lobby after the show. She was absolutely beautiful, a real hottie. He was at best an average shlub. Some people wouldn't know good fortune if it sat on their face and spun 'round like a record.

Dusting off an old joke...
A woman, on the eve of her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, decides the spark has gone out of her marriage. She knows her husband is a huge country music fan, so she goes to a tattoo parlor and gets a drawing of Shania Twain on the inside of her right thigh. She likes the way it turns out, so she gets a drawing of Faith Hill on the inside of her left thigh.
When her husband comes home from work on the night of their anniversary, he is greeted by his wife laying naked and spread-eagle on their living room floor.
"I got these tattoos on my inner thighs 'cause I know how much you love country music."
Her husband takes in the scene for a moment and says "I don't know who those gals on your thighs are, but the guy in the middle is definitely Willie Nelson."

Monday, June 27, 2005
I wrote this short story in high school, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I updated it in college for a creative writing assignment. Now I'm updating it once again for my blog. It's a flawed piece, but it is what it is.

The Collection

I was thirteen and my world was a confusing mesh of childish whims and adult desires, as if some demon had possessed my body with an array of skin problems and mood swings. I could have easily dealt with the physical changes, but the feelings were the sort I hadn't experienced before and didn't know how to confront.

Into this swirl of pubescent angst entered Amy, a person whose beauty and quiet confidence made my awkwardness seem a sick joke played on me by a cruel or at least arbitrary God. She was pretty, but so much more than that. She rose above the peroxided masses with her quick wit and infectious charm. She also had the largest record collection in the free world.

The first time I saw the collection I was speechless. The albums, CD's still years away, sat in cardboard boxes stacked from floor to ceiling, taking up almost all of Amy's bedroom. She started sleeping in the family room when getting to her bed proved too difficult.

For all of the records she owned, Amy never listened to a lot of music. The collection was actually started by her late sister Jennifer before Amy was even born. Jennifer was twenty when she died of leukemia; Amy made it her life's mission to ensure the collection would live forever. She spent most of her babysitting money on albums she would never hear, all in an effort to keep her sister alive.

Amy used to tell me of Jennifer's love of music. When she was very sick Jennifer would listen to a few songs and just for a few minutes forget about the pain. Music was her very soul. Whenever I looked through those records it was like being able to visit the afterlife and walk through eternity with the blessed dead. I never got a chance to know Jennifer but every time I walked out of that room I missed her.

That's what makes what I did so unbelievable to me now. As the weeks went by I grew closer to Amy and the novelty of the collection began to wear off. All Amy ever did was go to school and come straight home to sort through records. I loved Amy. It was a thirteen-year-old's love but it felt so real to me then. I longed to spend time with her and discover other aspects of her personality besides "keeper of the collection." Just once I wanted her to pay that much attention to me.

I soon began to channel all of my impulsive hatred to Jennifer's albums. I blamed them for all of my problems, all of my character flaws, every shortcoming I had up to that point. That's why my idea seemed so reasonable at the time. I was only thirteen and my life was sinking into the thickness of an obsessive musical inheritance. Jennifer's memories were more powerful than my actual being, so her memories had to go.

At first I thought of destroying the albums, but that would have been like damning Jennifer forever. I couldn't end it so violently. Instead I bided my time until summer. I would steal the collection while Amy and her parents were on vacation, storing it in an empty room in our basement. I wouldn't murder Jennifer's soul but I was quite willing to kidnap it.

I took advantage of the family's trust by using the key they left so I could feed the dog and water the plants. I'd wait until the middle of the night, climb out my bedroom window, and effortlessly enter their house.

Stealing the collection was the slowest process of my life. I'd take just a few crates at a time and wheel them down the street in a rusty old wagon I'd played with as a child. It took three nights of hauling but I finally did it. I even broke a window in Amy's bedroom so she'd think it was breaking and entering. All of Jennifer's records were in my basement and I had delivered Amy from the spirit world.

On the day Amy was to come back from vacation I waited for her to call and tell me the collection was gone. I imagined quietly consoling her for a few days before engaging in normal teenage activities. Her transformation from eternal keeper to ordinary girl would at last be complete.

The phone rang at exactly 5:17pm. I picked up the receiver expecting to be delighted by Amy's anguish. But it wasn't Amy - it was her dad. In a shaky and barely audible voice he explained how Amy had become ill during the vacation. She grew weak and the doctors didn't know what was causing this mysterious sickness. After three days of agonizing pain and unfathomable suffering, Amy died.

I just stood there staring at nothing and moving my mouth with making a sound. I could feel my blood leave my body all at once as the phone receiver bounced off our hardwood floor.

I'm an adult now. It's been so long since I killed my girlfriend I can barely remember her voice. My parents are moving out of my childhood home and I have to do something with the collection. In the immediate years after Amy's death I kept the records so I could feel her presence, just as I had felt Jennifer's spirit before. But I never did. The collection was Jennifer, not Amy. God knows I tried to feel it. Late at night, sometimes even after I had moved out, I would go to my parent's basement and sit at the door to that room and pray I would sense Amy, but I only envisioned Jennifer. Each and every time.

To really sense Amy I had to go to the corner of our garage and find the old wagon placed against the back wall. I'd cower in the far corner and remember how I pulled that wagon up and down the street, each creaking turn of its rusty wheels bringing Amy closer to the end.

Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Joys of the Non Sequitur
non sequitur: a statement that does not follow logically from what proceeded it.

I don't know what I'd do without the non sequitur. I've used this brilliant verbal weapon to remove myself from many a desperate situation. I also employ the non sequitur as a means to annoy and confuse stupid people. A non sequitur can't be too jokey. You don't want the victim to laugh; you want him to stand there with a look on his face like Cuba Gooding in "Radio."

Allow me to offer a few examples. The first quote is a person's comment, the second is my non sequitur.

"Todd, I think I'm in love with you."
"Why do you think Jesus Jones broke up.?"

"Damn it, why isn't this reset done?"
"Weighing in at well over three hundred-fifty pounds, William Howard Taft was our heaviest president."

"Let's discuss the components of infrastructure and the industrial location analysis."
"I'm not impressed by rainbows. I mean, so what?"

You get the idea. Embrace the awesome power of the non sequitur. Use it to perplex the morons in your own life.

If anyone ever tries to baffle you with a non sequitur, just reply with an "I agree" or "That's what I've heard," as if it all makes perfect sense to you.

Friday, June 24, 2005
Sappy Childhood Memories
I think Modigili tagged me; I'm not sure, but I'll accept the challenge anyway.

5 Things I Miss About My Childhood

5. When you're a kid you don't have to work or pay taxes. I miss the beheyzeus out of that. The summers were pure gold. I'd sleep till noon, then my grandmother would fix my lunch. I can't believe I got away with that shit.

4. Until I was about nine, I was skinny with blonde hair and all the girls thought I was cute. It was cool - I kept my cooty shots up to date. Then one fall my mom had to take me to a special secluded area of Sears to try on "Husky" sized pants. Within a few years I was chunky and my hair had turned baby-shit brown. After that, my memory gets a little hazy, but if I concentrate I can make out a succession of girls telling me to get lost.

3. There was a beer depot in my neighborhood. For those lucky enough to have grown up in a respectable area, a beer depot is a bar, usually of the dive variety, that also features a walk-up liquor store. Most of the time scary guys with mullets and unironic trucker hats would gather around and debate which was more fun, incest or random molestation, and drink in front of the place, figuratively waving their collective cock at Kentucky's open container laws. We kids went there for Cokes in the little glass bottles. The beer depot kept their Cokes about three degrees away from freezing up. Getting caught in the middle of the occasional drunken brawl was a small price to pay for such deliciousness.

2. Sometimes it would snow and they'd cancel school for the day. I have yet to experience a joy that rivals not having to go to school when I thought I had to, and I'm not the only one who feels that way. I was talking to a longtime friend of mine shortly after the birth of his first child.

He: "When the baby was born it was the best feeling ever."
Me: "Better than when you were a kid and it snowed and you got to miss school?"
He: "Oh fuck no. Nothing beats that."

1. When I was a kid my grandparents were still around, and just as important, still healthy. My grandparents on my mom's side helped raise me while she toiled away at her job. It takes a village to raise a spoiled jackass and they were a big influence in my life. That explains my affinity for the musical stylings of Lawrence Welk and His Orchestra.

At the risk of being banned from blogdom I'm not going to tag anyone specifically because people get all bitchy about it. I urge anyone who wants to take this theme and run with it to do so.

Thursday, June 23, 2005
The other half of the story
I wrote a draft last week about growing up in a neighborhood that could have charitably been called blue collar. I published part of it as "A Christmas Story in June?" but I initially shitcanned the other, more disturbing aspect: The racism I observed as a young person. I just wasn't in the mood to deal with it, until I read about Ago-go's struggles with the same issue. Even though I've always known that racism isn't exclusive to the South, to read of a woman from Canada being treated differently when she gets a little sun really brought home just how widespread it really is.

Thank god my mom isn't a racist. That's all that saved me growing up. When I first entered high school I was friends with this kid named Dan Hatch, who lived just down the street. Dan was a decent guy, one of the few in the neighborhood I gave a drop of piss about. Dan's dad was by far the biggest racist I've ever known. There may be someone worse, but I never met him.

It started when I was about fourteen and made an anti-Reagan statement in front of Mr. Hatch. He started calling me "Liberal." He said it with contempt the way Rush Limbaugh says it now only with a backwoods country fuck accent. Eventually he decided to call me "N-word Lover" (only he, of course, said the actual word). When I look back at it now, it amazes me because the man didn't hate me. I was his son's friend and welcome in his home. He just randomly tossed around such a hateful word as a nickname for a kid who didn't annoy him that much.

He used the name as almost a term of endearment. He called me that when he was being nice to me. He'd see me in my backyard and shout, past the three yards that separated us, "Hey, N-word Lover, we're grillin' burgers. Come on over and fix yourself a plate, you liberal cocksucker." And I'd go over and eat the man's food. Not because I endorsed his social views or enjoyed being called names, but because Dan was my friend and I was a fat kid who liked free burgers. "Have some more food, N-word Lover," he'd offer. "We have watermelon for desert. I know you N-word lovers like their watermelon."

The name only bothered me in the way it bothers you when someone pokes at you repeatedly. It didn't make me mad because I didn't care about his opinion. I'd laugh an obviously fake laugh and say "I like everyone," which was bullshit; I disliked everyone, but it had nothing to do with as arbitrary a factor as skin color. I'm glad to say I don't dislike everyone anymore. Now I hate everyone.

I have no clue what makes a person think like Mr. Hatch, other than simple ignorance. I suppose any reader hoping for profound insight just wasted time with this blog, time they'll never get back. Sorry.

Dan and his family only lived in the neighborhood a few years. They moved a couple of miles away and I started going to a different high school. The last time I saw any of the Hatch family was my senior year. I was at a Winn-Dixie grocery store when I spotted the long-suffered Mrs. Hash and her daughter, who was about thirteen or fourteen at the time. The daughter was pushing a baby in a stroller. The baby, a little boy, was bi-racial. The apple fell far far from the tree.

I walked up to Mrs. Hash, a nice lady who always gave me homemade pie, and made small talk until the girl went down a different aisle.
"So," I said, "when Mr. Hatch committed suicide, who found the body?"
She kind of laughed, then said sternly "He didn't take it none too good."

I hope Mrs. Hash, though not a well spoken woman, managed to bestow upon that baby her giving, kind nature. Otherwise, the baby grew up to be a troubled young man, and Mr. Hatch could bask in his self-fulfilling prophesy.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Here's to Staying Home
After today, I vow to brew my own coffee in the morning and cook my own dinner at night. It all started when I took my morning break (translation: snuck out on company time) and went to Starbucks. I wish one of those idyllic city coffeehouses was near my work; the kind of place with a self-important professional student reading gut-wrenchingly bad poetry to a gaggle of clove cigarette smokers who rhythmically snap their applause. But that place doesn't exist in all of Vegas, let alone the suburbs, so I went to Starbucks, the only cup of coffee for miles around that won't give me the butt-dribbles.

I knew the guy in front of me was going to be trouble because he gave us a running dialogue of every thought that went through his head: "The line is long this morning...that pastry looks it my turn yet?" He was saying all of this out loud. Then he started reciting the specials board: "Gazebo blend. What the hell is Gazebo blend? I've never heard of Gazebo blend." Since he wasn't a four-year-old learning to read, no one was impressed. Then he starts in on the cashier, who's busy GUESS WHAT? taking orders, collecting money, and giving change. "Miss, what's Gazebo blend? I've never heard of Gazebo blend." He gets mad that she doesn't stop what she's doing and immediately answer his parrot prattle. He turns to an old asshole standby, the exaggerated sigh, followed by the douchebag kill move, the audible harrumph. "God damn it, I just want to know what Gazebo blend is."

I so wanted to shake his dentures loose, all the while shouting "It's coffee you mindless drone. Your tattered taste buds couldn't tell the difference between drinking a cup of Gazebo blend and chewing on an actual Gazebo!" But I was raised in a lower Midwest, upper south "false politeness" zone, so I stayed quiet and rolled my eyes.

When it's his turn, the cashier, a charming young lady who (and this is the truth) rescues dogs from animal shelters and finds them good homes, politely and oh-so-patiently explains the intricacies of the now ubiquitous Gazebo blend. She then says, smiling like she was talking to an actual person, "Sir, would you like a free sample of our delicious mocha frappucino?"

He replied: "Just give me my damn coffee. It would take an act of congress to get me to drink that shit."

That guy really needs a blog. Or a foot up his keister. But a blog would let him relieve some of the hatred that eats at the spot where a human soul should be. If not for my rage-releasing blog, I might have killed him on the spot.

In the evening I went to a pretty good Chinese take-out place for dinner. While I was waiting for my food, I overheard this deadly serious humorless guy go on and on to his friend about how this meal would no doubt pale in comparison to the Chinese take-out in the Bay area. First of all, when someone says "Bay area" they're from Oakland; I'm not impressed. Also, I learned that our aspiring critic had never been to this place before. Why did he automatically assume the food wasn't going to live up to his high standards? I took a quick look into the kitchen; those were Chinese people cooking the food. There weren't any Swedes preparing his Moo Goo Gui Pan.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Thoughts of the Random Variety, Part 2
Os and Brooke were horribly offended (whatever) by my last random thoughts post, so here we go again.

- A good name for a gay porno would be "The Czech's in the Male."

- Another sentence you'll never hear: "Heavens to Betsy, someone ran all willy-nilly through our construction site."

- My friend bought a cream to rub on his penis twice a day to make it bigger. I don't know if it worked on his penis, but his hands are gigantic.

- My favorite game as a child was "Stay in My Room and Wish All the Other Kids Were Dead."

- If you're ever in San Francisco and tour Alcatraz, avoid an attraction called "The Prison Rape Simulation Chamber."

- For me, the worst part of a date is at the end when I'm paying the hooker and come up short twenty dollars. The long drive to the ATM, when her pimp has a gun pressed to the back of my head....that is awkward!

- My dad used to punch me in the stomach whenever I expressed an emotion. Is that out of the ordinary?

- If Mother Theresa was so great, how come she never had her own line of designer perfumes?

- Last Saturday, at around 2am, I was walking along the strip when I heard a gun go off and the tourist in front of me fell to the ground. A lady ran up and asked, "Oh my god! Was he shot?", and I'm all, "What am I, his biographer?"

- I wish I could bear children; that way I'd have a legitimate excuse for my weight gain.

- We have all of these troops forced to extend their tours of duty in Iraq, and where's the Salvation Army while this is going on? Yeah, way to beg for change and sell used clothes, guys.

- Believe it or not, women aren't impressed with my ability to weep on command.

- One more sentence you'll never hear: "Well said, Mr. President."

- I kept telling her, "Fuckwad McCuntdick is a terrible name for a child," but she didn't listen.

- If I would have been Terri Schiavo's husband, I'd have rented her to California motorists so they could prop her up in the passenger's seat and drive in the car pool lane.

Monday, June 20, 2005
Opiate for the Masses and Random Stuff
For thousands of years the ruling class has perpetuated the myth that mortal suffering is rewarded by eternal life in heaven. But they aren't standing in line for a sip from the Cup of Suffer, are they? With worker's retirement accounts squandered and jobs shipped to overseas kiddie-slave labor, you'd think the CEO's of these companies would be worried for their eternal souls.

How did the myth get started? Imagine that a long time ago you were a landowner with roughly a hundred indentured servants. You'd probably worry that one day your slaves would rise up as one, storm your castle, rape and eviscerate your wife, disembowel your children, and cut you into pieces that can barely be seen by the naked eye. The solution: "Oh sure, life squats down and blows a colon-tini on you fuckers every single day, but you'll be rewarded in the afterlife." It's like if you said to a friend, "I'll pay that twenty bucks I owe you the day after you die."

Unfortunately, the poor believed it because it was hope, which is more addictive than crack; and just like crack, it makes people behave in ways they normally wouldn't.

This isn't an anti-religion rant; there may very well be an afterlife. I just don't think you should have to be a human biscuit in the circle-jerk of life to get there.

I Left the House for Something Besides Work!
On Friday a bunch of us went to the New York, New York Casino to a dueling piano bar. It was a nice enough place but crowded (the L.V. Strip crowded on a Friday night, how odd); and the place was just lousy with guys. I was thinking, "Okay who ordered extra sausage on my party pizza?" Also, it was hot and moist in there, like I was starring in the Disney film, "Honey, I Just Shrunk Todd and Stuffed Him in My Pants." I didn't see any recreational lesbianism, but I did see a girl flash titsky to her flamboyantly gay male friend. What should I call that? Ironic Heterosexuality?

After an hour or so of sweating like Michael Jackson at Scoutarama, we went to a lounge at the Bellagio, where I had the best margarita I've ever tasted. Did they give these drinks away, you might ask? No, I might answer, they were FOURTEEN DOLLARS APIECE. Oh, well, I had two; if they had been seven dollars I would have had four. No big deal.

Can Someone Confirm This?
Today at work someone told me that after Stevie Wonder sang the national anthem at the NBA finals, President Bush waved at him. Let me repeat: Our president directed a non-verbal gesture at the most famous blind person ever. I didn't see it, but I hope to god it's true. This could be worse than his "ask Christopher Reeve to tapdance" gaffe of a few years ago.

Sunday, June 19, 2005
A Christmas Story in June?
My parents filed for divorce the day after I was conceived, so I grew up in a single parent home. When I was a kid that only meant one thing....TWO CHRISTMASES!! Who needs a strong adult male role model around when you're getting all that loot? I pretended to still believe in Santa for years after I figured out the truth because I thought if they knew I didn't believe they'd stop showering me with goodies. I finally had to give up the deception when I sat on a mall Santa's lap and shattered his pelvis. Much to my surprise and delight, Christmas remained an embarrassment of riches.

I was a spoiled brat and I loved every minute of it. The day after Christmas, kids in my neighborhood would approach me forlornly and say, "Yeah, I got a sweatshirt that doesn't fit, a package of tube socks, and a scratch-and-dent Sea Monkey village. What did you get?" I'd reply, "Oh, I got ten G.I. Joes with the kung fu grip, a pinball machine, a tv for my room, and...I don't know, some other crap."

Naturally, I was roundly despised by almost everyone, partly because I refused to let kids I didn't like play with my stuff. Every day of the summer, while my mom was at work, a pack of unwashed redneck transmission fluid huffers would knock on my door and want to play pinball or air hockey. If one of the three people in the neighborhood who I could actually stand was among the group, I'd let them in. If not, which was usually the case, I'd say "no" and slam the door in their faces. They hated me, they knew I hated them, fuck them for even asking. You need two people to play air hockey but I let the table sit unused I despised those greasy- haired fucks so much. They had cesspool run-off coursing through their veins and I didn't want to be around them.

They thought they were getting the last laugh when we'd play football and they'd gang tackle me when I didn't have the ball, but I'm happy to report most of them are now dead or in prison.

Friday, June 17, 2005
A guy I used to work with has a friend, Kevin, who's a midget. I know the PC term is "little person" but it's my blog and I'm using "midget". If a midget has his own blog he can use a derogatory term for tall people for all I care. Anyway, I was over at Kevin the midget's house once, and I learned the legend of the "shovie".

Apparently, ever since high school, Kevin has been given shovies, which consist of a woman grabbing him by the head and shoving (hence the name) his face into her boobage. This custom has followed Kevin around his entire teenage and adult life. He told me three hot chicks from where he works give him shovies almost every day. His wife, who is of average height, knows about the shovies and doesn't care. "He's a midget," she said. "Give him a fuckin' break."

What a perfect fringe benefit of being a midget! I can imagine Kevin in high school, all depressed and feeling like an outcast, when suddenly the head cheerleader introduces him to the twins. That has got to improve your outlook.
I always knew midgets had the circus to fall back on, but daily shovies is a foundation on which to build a dream.

Hey, I'm freakishly tall; how come short girls don't arbitrarily bury their faces into my crotch? I feel cheated.

Actually, I received a shovie when I worked at Organized Living. I was sitting down, of course, but the main component of a shovie is face in breastizes, not whether or not you're standing. I had just finished counting out this nineteen-year-old cashier when she said her goodbyes by almost smothering me to death with her massive jug-bitties. (I sense a future blog about this girl).

I'm not saying it would be worth midgetdom to get that treatment all the time, but as far as trans-mundane maladies go, it beats the hell out of being the Bearded Lady or Lobster Boy.

Thursday, June 16, 2005
This One Time, At Church Camp...
When I was fourteen I spent a week at church camp at a place called Cedar Ridge, a tick-infested, sweltering hell-hole just outside of Louisville; and also the place where I forged friendships I have to this day. It was church camp in name only thanks to the liberal theology of my religious denomination. Through the years some unchurchy shit went down at church camp.

That year, the director of the senior high camp was a nice but humorless man named Reverend Schnelle. I never knew his first name. At camp all of the other ministers went by Bill or Greg or Dave, but Reverend Tight Ass insisted on being addressed by his formal title.

Reverend Schnelle didn't want us up all night fondling each other - or in my case raiding the dining hall's refrigerator and getting even fatter - so early in the week he struck a deal with us: "Go to bed on time all week and Friday you can stay up all night." We eagerly accepted and behaved reasonably well.

Friday night, after the annual senior high dance and pizza party, we all, boys and girls alike, gathered in one cabin to tell dirty jokes and amusing anecdotes. Yeah, that's how wild we were. Our teenage rebellion could hardly be contained. Everyone was having a good time basically listening to me tell blasphemous stories when suddenly we hear Reverend Schnelle's voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, time to get some sleep."

Not only did this liar interrupt the tale of my neighbor with the big tits getting caught in a surprise rain storm, he automatically brought us all down.
"You said we could stay up all night," we whined in unison.
His verbatim reply: "Well, I didn't think you'd actually want to."
What kind of twisted logic was that? I didn't think you'd want what I promised you. What a dickhead.

Needless to say, we were all pissed. But none of us were as pissed as my best friend, John Schwartz, whom I described in detail in my
  • Kentucky Derby post.

  • John, you see, wasn't listening to my classic jokes such as "Why doesn't Jesus eat M & M's? They fall through the holes in his hands." He was in a corner of the cabin, making out with a girl. John was the only non-dork among us. Actually he was kind of a dork, but as they say, in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. That girl was gonna get felt up by someone at church camp, by god, and she chose John to do the felting.

    The following morning I woke up early to wash off the betrayal of yet another authority figure. I had the horrid, putrid shower cabin all to myself if you don't count the insects. As I had just finished dressing and started brushing my teeth, John walked in. We nodded at each other, best friends too tired and angry to converse. John walked into one of the shower stalls and I was on my way out when Reverend Schnelle enters. I didn't want to acknowledge the asshole but he was blocking my exit. I was looking him right in the eyes when John Schwartz, showering obliviously, yelled as loudly as he could, "HEY, TODD...REVEREND SCHNELLE REALLY FUCKED US UP THE ASS LAST NIGHT!"

    I wish I could give a detailed description of the look on Reverend Schnelle's face, but I was too busy shoving the man out of my way and running down a dirt path, simultaneously screaming like a teenage girl and laughing hysterically.

    John never went back to camp.

    Wednesday, June 15, 2005
    Thoughts of the Random Variety
    Yeah, I'm fresh out of ideas today, so here are a few thoughts I've recently jotted down.

    - Instead of dieting, I'm getting a full-body tattoo of myself forty pounds lighter.

    - I'm suing the creators of "The Jetsons" for promising me such a cool future. Fucking liars.

    - I hear in some markets Rush Limbaugh gets beat in the ratings by two guys with speech impediments who talk about spot welding.

    - Whatever happened to Candlebox? Pop culture left them far behind.

    - You know what's overrated? Friendships.

    - I remember when I had left a shred of human dignity. Those were the days.

    - I'll bet John Kerry's spending his free time getting used to the term "historical footnote."

    - If she didn't want me to sleep with her sister she should have told me so.

    - I've been to Terre Haute, Indiana. Jealous?

    - A few years ago I received an invitation to my high school reunion, but when I got there a bunch of masked thugs beat me within inches of my life. It may have been a random act of violence, it may have been payback for when I disfigured the prom queen. Who knows?

    - If you really want to annoy a police officer, kill his partner.

    - For his next stunt, daredevil Robbie Knievel will attempt to jump over the empty space where Dick Cheney's soul is supposed to be.

    - I like big butts, but I have lied about it on occasion.

    - Every state should have a celebrity governor. Except Mississippi. Fuck them.

    - If a lady says she can't meet for drinks because she's donating bone marrow to the homeless, do you think she's telling the truth?

    - If I did porn my screen name would be Otis Spunkflyer.

    - A sentence you'll never hear: "I shan't inhabit the trailer home for a fortnight."

    - Jesus Christ: Pacifist, or just plain chickenshit?

    - I want to be the only caricaturist who draws people with tiny heads and gigantic bodies.

    - My cousin calls it a "pre-emptive strike." The local authorities call it "statutory rape."

    Tuesday, June 14, 2005
    Notes from the M-TV Movie Awards
    Sunday morning I got "breakfast" at My Favorite Muffin and came home to watch a rebroadcast of the M-TV Movie Awards. I took notes.

    Preshow: M-TV must want to expose Nicole Ritchie as the most anorexic famous-for-nothing girl in Hollywood, because they've paired her with rapper Fat Joe. Standing next to one another, they look like the number 10.

    Don't pay your bills next month for the world is surely ending: Host Jimmy Fallon just said something funny. It wasn't as funny as he thought it was, but it was still funny.

    Lindsay Lohan just won an award, along with the cast of "Mean Girls." It doesn't help her cause to stand next to her hot, still curvaceous, non-pill poppin' co-stars.

    Eminem takes the stage. It starts out promising as he dances with rap ho puppets who have giant tits and asses, but then he starts singing about his daughter again. Congrats, Slim Shady, you're the only person to ever reproduce.

    The star of "Napoleon Dynamite" receives an award from Jessica Alba. He has the perfect opportunity to hug Jessica and possibly cop a cheap feel but he just takes the trophy-thing and starts his speech. Life does imitate art; he's really as clueless as his movie character.

    Mariah "Crazy as a Shit-house Rat" Carey performs. See, Lindsay, Mariah's living proof you can be a spoiled basketcase and still keep those huge blouse balloons.

    Okay, Dakota Fanning freaks me out. She's otherworldly well-spoken. Is she a child or a dwarf?

    Hillary Swank (maybe the worst name ever) introduces a tribute to "The Breakfast Club." Some unspeakably awful pop-punk band butchers that "Don't You Forget About Me" song. Do they grow these shitty bands in some field in the midwest? Anyway, some of the stars of the movie come out and blather on. Judd Nelson and Emilio Estevez are absent, but aren't missed. To complete the eighties theme, Lindsay Lohan does a line of coke off of Molly Ringwald's tits.

    Katie Holmes gives an award to Tom Cruise. Oh, there's nothing more spirit-draining than a fake Hollywood relationship. I do think it's sweet that Katie is remaining a virgin until she falls in love with a heterosexual.

    Foo Fighters play. Every mediocre note is another drop of piss on Kurt Cobain's legacy.

    A lot of other stuff happened but it bored the life out of me. I didn't talk much about who won what, did I? I'm way too old for this channel. I'm going to drink a beer and listen to Veruca Salt's "American Thighs" CD.

    Monday, June 13, 2005
    Final Score: Child Fucker 1, Society 0
    I had a nice, breezy, lighthearted post about the M-TV Movie Awards ready to go today, but instead I'm forced to vent my spleen about the latest celebrity justice travesty. Michael Jackson, for those living in a cave, was acquitted of all charges. It doesn't surprise me after the Robert Blake verdict, but it still makes me so angry I can barely type these words.

    I think Michael Jackson is a child molester. To quote the great Danny Partridge, "If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it's probably a duck." This pathetic, sick, subhuman should have been passed around the cell block like a carton of smokes. Karma-wise, he needed to be on the receiving end of some man-boy lovin'. But instead he's free to go and will probably surround himself with little boys at his sickeningly self-congratulatory press conference. He loves children so much, but isn't it strange that girls are never invited to the party?

    What pisses me off almost as much as this puddle of ooze being given free reign to stick his bleached, surgery-altered cock up in tykes is the crowd of people outside the courthouse who cheered the verdict. These people worship someone who at the very least has strange, inappropriate relationships with children and at the worst fucks them. They support a molester because, in 1983, said molester released an album they enjoyed. That's the reason for all of this: "Thriller." "Sure, he exposed himself to toddlers but have you seen him moonwalk?" Fuck those cheering cunts. They should be forced to hang outside the courthouse of every child molestation trial and cast their lots with the scores of obscure pedaphiles who do what Michael did to little fanfare. You never hear a newscaster say, "The crowd goes wild as Bill the Scoutmaster is acquitted of all charges."

    I hope there's a hell. I'll most likely go there, but even if I'm up to my neck in unspeakable filth, I'll be standing on Michael Jackson's narrow shoulders.

    Saturday, June 11, 2005
    Recreational Lesbianism is the New Straight
    I've used the line "recreational lesbianism is the new straight" as a comment on other people's blogs, and I'm so proud of my pithy saying I decided to talk about it at length.

    Whenever I go to the Strip at night, I see a veritable pervert's ransom of recreational lesbians, otherwise hetero girls who enjoy going out, getting drunk, and getting down with other ladies just to drive guys insane. It works, too. They have a name for guys who say they don't enjoy watching two hot chicks go at it: Liar.

    I first noticed this trend back in Louisville at a place called BAR. Female patrons were encouraged to dance on the bar and shake what the good lord gave 'em. The more socially advanced of them would inevitably kiss one another. The guys would get a show, the girls would have drinks bought for them all night, and the bar would stay crowded until last call. Everybody won.

    Las Vegas does decadence bigger and better, so recreational lesbianism is as commonplace as a watered-down drink. My favorite personal experience was last year at MGM's Studio 54. We used to have a connection there; my brother's friend knew the head bartender, so we got in free, no waiting, to VIP. The bartender, Keith, would also pour the biggest, strongest drinks I've ever had and not charge for them. On the night in question I was on my second Big Gulp-sized bourbon and Coke, ninety-eight percent of which was bourbon, when a beautiful young lady accidentally bumped in to me. She was extremely nice and apologetic, which of course meant she was a tourist from the Midwest; they're the only nice people in town. She was with several other women of equal hotness, so I said in my drunken state, "I'll forgive you if you make out with one of your friends."

    As soon as I said it I braced myself for the forthcoming slap or drink-in-face. Instead, she smiled and pulled a friend toward her. They tore at each other like it was recreational lesbian mating season. The girl's friend hadn't heard my comment and had no idea what was going on, but she was an enthusiastic participant. When they finished I thanked them and "bought" their entire party giant-sized drinks, which of course Keith poured for free. Once again, everybody won.

    In closing, I'd like to thank all of the women in all of the bars who make recreational lesbianism such an enjoyable trend. I'd also like to thank Bill Clinton, who made it acceptable for a male Democrat to openly enjoy this sort of thing.

    Friday, June 10, 2005
    Is Nothing Sacred?
    How's this for a shit idea: A corporate entity, in obvious conjunction with the Lords of Bad Taste, is opening a bar on the Las Vegas Strip called "Toby Keith's 'I Love My Bar and Grill.'" Yes, the Toby Keith of right wing warmonger anthems; THAT Toby Keith.
    Godcocksuckingdammit. Why don't they just call the bar "Las Vegas Jumps the Shark" or "A Sure Sign of the Fall of Western Civilization" or my personal favorite, "Fuck Todd and All He Holds Dear"?

    You see, I love bars. Bars have endless supplies of alcohol and drunk women, the only kind of woman who'll talk to me. To associate a pile like Toby Keith with such a noble institution is a blasphemy to me, akin to Normandy survivors seeing Hitler in an Uncle Sam outfit.

    I guess Toby Keith needs money. It could be months before the next exploitable war and/or national tragedy. Believe me, Toby loves himself a disaster. The TK express runs out of steam if it can't refuel with the blood of innocents. "Come on, terrorist networks, Daddy needs a new big stupid hat."

    Toby, if you like the war so much feel free to fight it. You're able-bodied and they're desperate enough to fudge a little on the minimum I.Q. requirements, so join the army. You may find it a little harder than penning moronically jingoistic ditties and bad-mouthing the Dixie Chicks.

    Apparently our city leaders thought the Strip, while replete with absolute douchebags, is somewhat lacking in the number of complete jackasses. This bar should level the playing field.

    Thursday, June 09, 2005
    Take Your Ass Back to New York
    A lot of Las Vegas natives hate out-0f-towners. They bitch constantly about visitors, even though they're the sole reason for our lack of state income tax and abundant entertainment options. Without tourism, Las Vegas would be...Phoenix. Is there a television show starring James Conn and a bevy of hot babes called "Phoenix"? No there is not.

    Besides, even if a tourist is particularly annoying, he'll be gone soon. That's the beauty of visitors; they leave. Residents, on the other hand, are here full time to fuck up the program. I hate to make sweeping generalizations - with the exception of here on my blog and in regular life - but ex-New Yorkers are ruining Las Vegas the hometown. Everywhere I go these loud, obnoxious everyone-look-at-me assholes are either berating service industry workers, discussing rude topics in their mouth-as-megaphone tones, driving like spastics, pushing their way through crowds, or rooting for the god damn Yankees. Fuck each and every one of them until the Keebler elves mistake their poop chutes for hollow trees and set up a series of anal cookie factories.

    The worst part of it is how they wear their despicable behavior like badges of honor. They're proud to be the worst people in the history of human existence. Wasn't 9-11 supposed to change them for the better? I don't know, maybe it did and all the ones who didn't want to change moved to Las Vegas. Their excuse is, "New York is so crowded and fast paced, you have to be aggressive to survive." Maybe, but you aren't there anymore. You're out West; most of these people are laid back former Californians, with one passive-aggressive southerner/midwesterner who wishes you'd chill the fuck out or go back to New York. And for the love of our taste buds, take your pizza with you. No one else likes that greasy, flaccid-crust shitpie you douches worship. DEEP DISH, BITCHES! WHAT?

    Oddly enough, this doesn't apply to female ex-New Yorkers. The one's I've met have been charming ladies with adorable accents. I guess they're thrilled their dating pool doesn't consist entirely of New York men.

    Steve C., you live in New York. What the fuck is up with these people?

    Tuesday, June 07, 2005
    Adhesive Atrocity
    The idea for today's post was inspired by a Pus Boy rant on the site Virtual Pus, in which he expresses dismay at a moronic car magnet. It reminded me of a bumper sticker I saw last summer here in good ol' Vegas.

    Last summer I was still working as an assistant manager at noted dismal failure Organized Living. Never being one who likes to delegate, I found myself, despite my quasi-lofty position of near-importance, enduring the one hundred-trillion degree heat while helping a lady carry a metric ton of impulse buys to her car. This lady hadn't been any more annoying than the other quarter-wits I dealt with on a daily basis, but she soon earned a place of stature in my personal Human Garbage Hall of Fame. Yeah, the bumper sticker made her a first-ballot entry.

    I would like to warn the faint of heart and weak of stomach to stop reading at this point. Likewise, if you have severe allergic reactions to unconscionable ignorance, turn off the computer and go powder and fluff your merkins or something. Okay, I told you so. The first thing I saw were the words "I Pray for George W. Bush and Our Troops." I think we all, regardless of political slant, want the troops to come home alive. Some of us may even pray that Bush would come to his senses and get them the fuck out of harm's way. So, having left one red state for another, I was used to sappy Republican crap and was prepared to let it go. Then I saw the illustration. As I describe said illustration, I'm sitting on the toilet while puking in a bucket, the thought of it makes me so sick. Underneath the slogan was an artist's rendering of George W. Bush in a prayer semi-circle with Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. See, I told you so. Is blood now pouring from your every orifice and maybe seeping through your pores a little? Well, you only read about it; I had to see it.

    I'm not rich, and god knows I'm not good looking, but thank every deity of every practiced religion since time began that I'm not stupid enough to approve of that bumper sticker. I would have rather been born a leper, my ravaged face pressed against Mother Teresa's withered teet, than be the kind of absolute simpleton that would put that horror-fuck on my car.

    That woman is fucking lucky I'm a virtual pauper who lives paycheck to paycheck and can't afford to lose a job because I painted a parking lot with the blood of the omnidumb. I simply prayed for her violent death and walked away.

    I will say that, as a Democrat, I'd like to have a bumper sticker depicting Bill Clinton and John F. Kennedy tag-teaming Jenna Jameson.

    Monday, June 06, 2005
    The Legend of Bear
    I used to play basketball at a small park in Louisville's south end, where I grew up. I was and still am a terrible basketball player; I'm slow of foot and can't jump over the Sunday paper, plus I don't like to make physical contact with sweaty guys. I went the entire grunge era without getting in a single mosh pit.

    I only got picked for games when one of my friends had "next", so I spent a lot of time sitting on the grass drinking Cokes with the other lousy players and the occasional girl who'd show up. I loved every minute I spent on or near that court, not for the privilege of hanging with rednecks but for the opportunity to see a genuine playground legend. His name was Bear.

    Bear wasn't your typical playground legend. Most PL's could dunk from the free throw line or dribble with their elbows or throw court-length between-the-legs bounce passes. Bear couldn't do any of those things. He possessed less athletic ability than anyone on the court, including me. He was, in fact, a short, rotund, middle-aged man who earned his nickname from his filthy, unkempt beard.

    What made Bear so good? Oh, he could consistently hit jump shots from forty feet away from the basket, that's all. He was auto-fucking-matic from anywhere on the court. I'd estimate he made about ninety percent of his shots, all from long range. The man was unguardable. He'd use his protruding stomach to knock the defender back and then...SWISH. He needed a nanosecond to get the shot off and that was it.

    It was priceless seeing the reaction of people playing against Bear for the first time. Some of these guys were athletes who played basketball for their high schools, and a forty-year-old tree stump of a man scored on them at will. They would get so angry fights would break out between guys blaming one another whenever Bear put one in their grills. He made EVERYONE his snivelling bitch and never, ever talked shit about it. The only things I ever heard Bear say were "'Sup?" (which is redneck for "What's up?"), "I got next," and when he had enough of turning arrogant kids into self-loathing suicide cases, "Later, y'all." A man of few words.

    Oh, did I mention that Bear played stinkin'-taint drunk most of the time? He'd show up already half sloshed and would continue drinking during the game from a flask he kept in his back pocket. I think Bear was Babe Ruth in a former life; like he'd leave the park and commence to hooker bangin'.

    I haven't been to that park in twenty years but I like to think Bear never left; that he's still raining jumpers at age 60, staying young by making teenagers feel old.

    But he probably died of alcohol poisoning in his sad, empty apartment and lay undiscovered for weeks until neighbors complained of a smell.

    Saturday, June 04, 2005
    The Drive of the Damned
    I have a rule when I drive: No cell phone conversations. Why? It's hard enough to avoid all the crazy people when I'm actually paying attention to the road.

    Today I was coming home from the grocery when this douche on his cell phone actually took up three lanes of traffic at once. I didn't think it was possible to drive a car sideways, but this stunt daredevil was actually doing it on a busy main road. I honked my horn at him as a gentle reminder to MOVE BEFORE I SLAM INTO YOUR CAR AND KILL US BOTH, YOU JIZZ-ADDLED FELTCHSTAIN! He gave me the finger, which had probably been all up his sister just minutes before, and straightened out so he was only using two lanes. I went around him, hoping my rising blood pressure wouldn't make my head explode.

    I swear to Jessica Alba (you have your god, I have mine) if a man ever crashes into me because he's talking on a cell phone I'll kill him right on the spot. If, after the wreck, I'm physically able to get out of my car I will end his life with extreme prejudice. If the collision leaves him bloodied and disoriented, I'll drag him from the mangled wreckage and jump up and down on his chest like I'm trying to stamp out a fire. If my prayers are answered and he's already dead, I'll steal the body from the accident scene and desecrate and torture his corpse in ways that'll hare-lip Donald Rumsfeld.

    If the driver is a woman I'll hire another woman to kill her at a later date, when she least expects it.

    That's all. Happy driving.

    FAQ: Frequently Asked Questions
    Q: Why did you name your blog "viva las vegASS"?
    A: Well, I live in Las Vegas and since I'm extremely juvenile I wanted to use a swear word. My first choice, viva las vegCUNT, didn't flow very well.

    Q: Who's the dumbest person in the history of earth?
    A: For years I thought it was the inventor of New Coke, but now I'm convinced it's the guy who broke up with Ago-go.

    Q: If you're so smart why do you work all day at a dead-end job and come home to do nothing but sit your lazy ass in front of a computer to write your worthless, offensive blog?
    A: Leave me alone, mom.

    Q: Do you have a girlfriend?
    A: No. The women of Las Vegas have impossible standards. They all want a man who can "afford" things; someone who doesn't physically repulse them; someone who doesn't leave quotes from the film "Taxi Driver" on their answering machine at three in the morning. Picky bitches.

    Q: Do you have a hobby?
    A: Yeah, fucking your mother.

    Q: Wasn't that last reply a bit harsh?
    A: I'm sorry. How 'bout "Yes, making sweet gentle love to your mother"?

    Q: You're going on a diet; how come only fat people are on diets?
    A: The same reason only cancer patients are on chemo, you dumb fuck.

    Q: Are there any viva las vegASS t-shirts?
    A: They're available wherever white shirts and black markers are sold.

    Q: I just wanted to ask you....BABA BOOEY BABA BOOEY HOWARD STERN'S PENIS!!!
    A: Someone needs to screen these questions.

    Q: How come there aren't any pictures on your blog? It would be more entertaining if there were.
    A: I don't plan on adding pictures for your amusement, but if you give me your address I'll be happy to send you a shiny object to blankly stare at for hours.

    Q: You seem obsessed with boobs, strip clubs, and Jessica Alba. How can you call yourself a liberal when all you do is objectify women?
    A: Umm....Jessica Alba.

    If you have any additional questions, go to

    Wednesday, June 01, 2005
    The Blame Game
    This should not be your blog of choice for political insight. The good folks at Virtual Pus are the ones you should turn to for an infotaining look at societal issues. Today I am going to write something political, but keep in mind I'm a grown man who only yesterday blogged about Lindsay Lohan. Take whatever I say with a pillar rather than a grain of salt.

    The whole "George W. Bush as two-term president" thing has been bothering me, so I decided I'd feel better if I found a scapegoat, someone to blame for his ever being elected in the first place. It's obvious the culprits are those who voted for Ralph Nader in 2000, turning a close election in favor of Bush.

    I knew a lot of people just like you, Naderhead. While the 2000 election was too close to call, as the right-wing fraud machine prepared to steal Al Gore's victory, you pranced around with the kind of self-congratulatory smugness that makes me want to choke a motherfucker. "I voted my conscience," you crowed as James Baker assembled his Army of Human Garbage to cornhole Al Gore back to the fucking Stone Age. "Bush and Gore are practically the same," you spat out as Clarence Uncle Thomas made sure his wife got a job with a Republican administration.

    Of course, it's your right as an American to vote however you see fit. Go ahead and cast a posthumous vote for Abbie Hoffman in 2008 for all I care. But please sit down, open wide, and take your bitter medicine. The next time President Bush does something that goes so against everything you stand for, it makes your mortal soul want to gnaw its way out of your body like a sewer rat through a rotted piece of housing project plywood...just sit there and shut the fuck up. You have no god damn right to bitch-n-complain. When you voted for Nader in 2000 you lost all B-n-C privledges.

    And while you're sitting in quiet despair keeping your worthless fucking cakehole shut for once in your over-pontificating life, take stock in what is now yours. It's your war; enjoy it. Enjoy your stagnant economy, your shitty environment, your reverse-Robin Hood tax cuts, and your blatant disregard for the separation of church and state. They're all yours now. You bought them with your cute little Nader vote. How can I blame the people who voted for Bush? They were all blinded by greed, brainwashed by fundamentalism, or handicapped by stupidity. You were supposed to be the intelligent one.

    The future does not bode well, my friends. The Democrats recently chose Howard Dean as their party chairman. Howard Dean, like it or not, is a national laughingstock. Unfair? Of course; it's always unfair to reduce a man's life to a sound bite. But in the immortal words of The Mole, "What do you think this is, kid, tv kiddie hour where we all sit around and lick Barney the Dinosaur's fucking pussy, heh? This is real life with consequences you take to the grave." In other words, it might have been a good idea to pick someone people don't think is crazy. And as tempting as it may be to blame Fox News for Dean's image problem, I first saw footage of his "meltdown" on The Daily Show, hardly a conservative propaganda machine.

    If any Naderite reads this I'm sure I'll receive in response an eloquent, well-worded, painstakingly researched pile of horseshit. Like I give a fuck what they think.